Day Dreamer

Did I dream of the butterfly or did the butterfly dream of me? An Existentialist at heart • Indian • Feminist• She/Her• Mostly dabbles in fandoms and occasional philosophy and hindu scriptures.

[shamebats]

"There's no thought crimes and no thought heroisms" is honestly such a good piece of life advice.

You could be having the most fucked up problematic thoughts 24/7 but if you treat people with kindness, the good you do is the only thing that matters. But if you have only the purest thoughts and all the correct beliefs, it doesn't matter one bit if you spend most of your time being an asshole to people.

[cardassiangoodreads]

#fandom needs this one

[twasjane]

God there really is a Terry Pratchett quote for everything

[discworld-heritage-posts]

Discworld Heritage Post

[handweavers]

the idea that the british empire accepted their decline with grace and peacefully and willingly withdrew from all their colonial territories and took their loss quietly is commonly expressed as fact but it's very much untrue, it's a successful propaganda campaign for them to claim that this is what happened but they were busy committing war crimes throughout their colonial territories long after supposed "independence" & they continued/continue to maintain economic control over these regions and actively killed local movements that wanted economic sovereignty, land reform, nationalization of natural resources much like the united states did/does within their sphere of influence. i say this not to minimize the atrocities the us has committed but to make a point that the uk is also guilty of these crimes up to the present as much as they'd like to pretend this was an era that ended a century ago. british colonial violence isn't something that ended after ww2 it continued throughout the 20th century and still to this day if you look at the actions undertaken by the british military and their mercenaries throughout the former empire

[handweavers]

for the past handful of years ive seen people say stuff like "well the british empire accepted their decline with grace and pulled out when they saw the ship sinking so why can't the us do that" and it's important that you understand that the british empire didn't actually do that and neither will their son lol

[poorquentyn]

hi! you seem to be very competent about this type of topics : could you explain how martin breaks the chosen one trope? because - unlike tyrion's - I still don't see how jon or daenerys' storylines are a deconstruction of that trope, also do you think that the fact that they'll probably die by the end of the series is part of "breaking the cliche?" (sorry for my english by the way, and sorry if this has already been asked to you!)

Thanks! Here’s how I visualize it: when GRRM breaks a trope, he doesn’t just leave the pieces lying around. He rebuilds the trope better. Part of what makes ASOIAF such an exhilarating and endlessly rewarding read is that it’s (largely) free of the pat nihilism that dogs so much of deconstructionist fantasy–and indeed, deconstructionist genre fiction at large. This is because George R. R. Martin loves fantasy tropes. He loves the hell out of them. He loves them so much he’s writing a gigantic series about how they can be done better when you get to the core of why they appeal to us and bring that to the surface. He is a lifelong fanboy offering his graduate thesis. He wants his characters and audience to earn their tropes, yes…precisely so those tropes will feel powerful, and not just author and reader alike going through the motions. 

So, in Jon’s case: acting like the chosen one in AGOT got him repeatedly slapped down, and what has actually advanced his story is the gradual accretion of earned wisdom and skill. In Dany’s case: the dragons have not actually solved her problems nor the world’s, and indeed have introduced a host of their own. Neither of these themes actually challenge their status as potential saviors of the world. But they do force both the characters and the audience to reconsider what that savior status means, and what we want it to mean. 

There’s also an ENORMOUS single deconstructive blow for both at the end of ADWD, when both of them decide to walk away from their respective responsibilities for deeply personal motivations coming suddenly to the fore, and you can see their arcs collapsing and reforming before your eyes.

[poorquentyn]

Dany mocked Quentyn. This something older, wiser Sansa would never do. Dany would have allowed him to court her if he was handsome & could ride her dragons. Instead, she gave him a dangerous hope that led to his death. So the fact that Jon catches her fancy & can do what Quentyn could not sours me on the idea of Dany & Jon uniting to save the world. Jon’s luck shouldn’t help Daenerys become a hero. I want Jon to indirectly take justice for Quent & Aegon (if she plays a role in burning him too)

Ehh…I don’t entirely agree. Dany wasn’t mocking Quent, she was mocking the fairytale tropes of his story (frog prince, and all that) as part of the author’s genre commentary in Quent’s arc. She didn’t show him the dragons out of maliciousness, but rather because she was desperately looking for a way to cut through the Meereenese (Gordian?) Knot. It was certainly a mistake, but Quent still made his own call, and I don’t think that’s something for which justice needs to be brought to Dany.

It is, of course, unfair at some level that Jon gets the spotlight and Quent is brushed aside. That’s one of the major arguments of Quent’s story: it can be a nightmare to realize you’re a supporting character, a walk-on and nothing more, especially if your best friend died to make you the hero. But I think Jon needs to counter that by being worthy of the messianic role, rather than punishing Dany for Quent’s death.

[hojotoho-asoiafery]

The fact that she was not mocking Quent may actually wind up being fairly significant (at least to the reader) considering the likelihood that Gerris will bring the less charitable interpretation of her laughter back to Doran.

[poorquentyn]

Yeah, great point. Drink is the one spinning that story, and we’re pretty clearly not supposed to identify with him.

[ai-manre]

asoiaf fandom cares more about the northern independence movement than the book Starks themselves do

[ai-manre]

Its such a whiplash to reread chapters of ADWD after being mostly connected to asoiaf through tumblr and reddit for so long.

Like, fandom be like: raaawr dany is foreign queen, she has no right, no one in westeros wants her

While 70% of ADWD plot is people trying to reach Dany and join her?? Tyrion, Varys, the Golden Company, Aegon and Co., the Martells (Doran and Quentyn), the Greyjoys, Marwyn in OldTown, the Widow at the Waterfront in Volantis, the Golden Company, Quentyn’s company (forgot the name), Red Priests etc etc. They are discussing her in OldTown, drinking to her in White Harbor (that Davos overhears), Jon is wishing for three dragons on the Wall

Ofcourse grrm wont make it so simple, he will make dany’s circumstances incredibly complicated through aegon and the wildfire at kings landing, but its ridiculous that a major chunk of the fandom acts like dany’s claims are ridiculous and she is entitled when she has a lot more people wanting her than most of the claimants till now

[spirit-meets-the-b0ne]

Snowstorm week 2026

Day 7 | A Dream of Spring

after the Long Night was ended they kissed in the light of a new dawn 🌅

on twitter: X

[ai-manre]

Phir Se Naina Mile: Chapter 3

Dhurandhar the Revenge Fix-It Fic

Chapter 2 Link

Chapter 1 Link

Preface: So sorry for the delay on this everyone! May was an incredibly busy month for me, I went on a 3 day weekend trip, worked my ass off for 2 weeks, then went for a 2 week long family trip.

At the base of the stairs, a long mirror ran down the length of the wall framed by colorful tassels. Yalina took a minute to survey her reflection in it. Her light pink salwar kameez had started to look creased, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now... Her curly hair had half fallen out of its braid, that she could do something about. She shook her hair free, tamed it with her fingers, and braided it again so it hung down neatly. Satisfied at the presentability of her reflection, she adjusted her dupatta and exited the building. 

Outside, the sun continued to shine bright enough to make her eyes crinkle shut. She checked her watch, it read close to five thirty. The road was empty enough that it took her ten agonizing minutes before she managed to flag down an auto rickshaw. A green rickshaw finally slowed to a stop in front of her, and she haltingly recited the address, praying that her memory served her right.  

Thankfully, the rickshaw driver was patient, coaxing details out of her until he filled in the blanks himself, “Wahi, Rangi parivar ka ghar na?” 

Relief swept over her, “Haanji.” He nodded and quoted 200rs. Yalina, who would have agreed to even 1000rs at this point, nodded in assent and took a seat. Then, they were off.  

Warm gusts of wind buffeted against her face, combed through her hair. Trepidation thudded hard in her chest. Here she was, alone in an unknown land, having left Hamza and Zayan behind. But strangely though, an odd sort of bravery was tingling in her nerves, outpacing the anxiety.  

Wide fields of waving crops spread out before her, flat plains painted green preening under the open blue sky. Outcroppings of sheds and stray tractors dotted the view, with a few scattered buildings looming in the distance. Now and then, a scarecrow stood out amidst the fields, striking a rather lonely figure. For the first time, she gazed upon the land laid out in front of her and thought of it not as India, but as Jaskirat’s home.  

Did you play in these fields as a child, Jaskirat? She wondered. Did you steal litchi off those branches and run when a farmer chased you? Did you rear cows and milk them? For so long, she’d pictured her husband’s childhood set in the high mountains of Quetta- that harsh but beautiful landscape had served as a fitting backdrop to her image of him. Now, it was a struggle to reassemble his image among these flat, green plains of plenty which seemed straight out of a storybook, so incongruent with the Hamza she’d known.  

One way or another, the greater difficulty had always been to envision Hamza as a child, still innocent.  

After a long while, they took a turn onto a muddy road. The rickshaw rumbled as it drove over bumps and potholes, jostling up and down. At last, they slowed to a stop at the end of a pathway leading to an aged, brown, two-storied house in the middle of the fields. 

“Is this the one?” Yalina wanted to know. 

“Haanji, yahi hai,” the driver assured her. Yalina thanked him, handed him the money, and disembarked from the vehicle.  

This is it. Unsurely, her hands fiddled with her dupatta before finally drawing it atop her head as she’d seen enough women do here. Slowly, with her pulse beating hard in her throat, she made her way down the pathway.  

As she drew closer, the distinct sounds of children shouting and playing became audible. There was no doorbell at the small gate. Yalina drew a fortifying breath, thought  this is happening, this is really happening, and unlatched the gate, letting herself inside. With jerky footsteps, she approached the door nestled in the body of the house. From here, the children’s voices sounded louder, but underneath, there was a soft underflow of two women conversing. 

There’s no going back.  

She thought of Hamza whispering “I shouldn’t push my luck.” Well, dear, let me do it for you. Of their own will, her fingers reached up and rang the doorbell. Inside, the conversation abruptly ceased. 

After a moment of mounting anticipation, the door opened inwards. Yalina blinked down at the small, round face of a sardar child peering up at her. “Ji?” The child probed. 

“Ah- namaste. Kya ye Jasleenji ka ghar hai?” Apprehension made Yalina forget Jaskirat’s mother’s name.  

The boy craned his head inside, “Mummy! Someone is here for you!” 

Yalina licked her lips and cleared her throat. Soon, a beautiful woman, taller than her, filled the doorframe. Jaskirat’s sister, her mind supplied numbly. 

“Ji? Mein Jasleen.” Jaskirat’s sister gave her a polite, questioning look. The descending sun caught her high cheekbones, their shape resembling her husband’s own. 

Yalina struggled to speak. “Ji, mein Meghna. You don’t know me and I am sorry to come so suddenly, but I actually had something to discuss with you. Can I come in if that’s alright? It’s quite hot outside,” She offered a pleasant smile and hoped it didn’t come off as crazy as she felt.  

Jasleen had a guarded look to her. She continued to stand in the doorway, appraising Yalina for a long moment, before stepping aside. Gratefully, Yalina toed off her sandals and entered their home. It was noticeably cooler and dimmer inside, with no lights beyond the sunlight slanting in through soft green curtains.  

Jasleen led the way to their living room, where two small, wooden sofa sets straddled a TV and a round glass coffee table. On one corner of the sofa, an old woman was sitting, holding a knife to cut an apple. Her bowed head bore greyed hair and deep worry lines ran down the length of her face, visible even from her side profile. Upon noticing that Jasleen wasn’t alone, the woman glanced up and set aside the knife and apple. The arch of her brows was familiar, mirrored upon her husband’s dear face. Jaskirat’s mother, Yalina thought, awestruck.  

The old woman folded her hands in greeting and Yalina responded in kind, awkwardly returning the gesture. Jasleen gestured her to the opposite sofa and Yalina obliged, making herself comfortable. At her mother’s questioning look, Jasleen informed her, “Mummy, this is Meghna. She has some work with me.” She then turned to the kid who’d followed them in, “Arjun, go bring a glass of water for the guest.” The kid dutifully scampered off to an adjoining door, and Jasleen joined her mother on the sofa facing Yalina.  

“Thank you,” Yalina expressed honestly. “You have a very beautiful home.” Jasleen answered her with a small, polite smile. It was true; their home might be humble, but it was clearly minded with care. The walls were painted a soft cream, hand-painted flower pots lined the window sill, and children’s toys were scattered all about. This used to be Hamza’s home...  

The child- Arjun- scurried back in with a glass of water, his speed causing some of the liquid to slosh out as he skidded to a halt in front of her. That made Yalina smile, she accepted the glass with a thanks and lifted it up to her lips. Arjun threw her a cheeky grin even as his mother admonished him for running indoors. The grin reminded her so much of Zayan’s that she could cry.  

Sipping the water slowly, she cast her gaze about and drank in her surroundings. Suddenly, her breath caught in her throat: off in a room beyond, four large photo-frames adorned a wall, each the portrait of a single person, each garlanded. There was an elderly turbaned man regal in an army uniform, a young beautiful girl grinning at the camera, and an unmistakably familiar hollow-eyed man, the man who’d once died in the bathroom of Yalina’s house. Yet that wasn’t the frame that held her attention either, no, it was the photo in the middle: of a strapping light-eyed young man with short, cropped hair and a clean jaw. The young man was clad in a crisp blue shirt and a grey tie, his eyes innocent and face open in a way Yalina had never seen him. A boy who’d yet to have the world gnash its teeth into him. 

“Jaskirat!” Jasleen called and Yalina started, fingers clenching around the steel glass. Belatedly, Yalina realized that she was addressing her other child who’d now put in an appearance, tiny face peering curiously at the gathering. The boy was small- shorter than her Zayan, but his eyes were a familiar shade of green-grey. “What are you doing here? Go back and finish your homework! Arjun, take your brother and make sure he does what he’s supposed to do.” The older boy scampered to his brother and took him by the hand, dragging him back inside while ignoring his protests.  

“Sorry for that. Could I bring you some more water?” Jasleen addressed Yalina.  

“No no, thank you.” Yalina set the glass down on the table with a clink.  

“Sorry, you said you had some work with me? Are you from the bank, Meghnaji?” Jasleen jumped to the point.  

And here it came, the moment of truth. Yalina corralled her courage.  

“Ji nahi, I am not from the bank. Actually, I came here to speak to both of you.” Her gaze shifted from one to the other, mother and daughter. Jasleen had the countenance of a person made of steel, unmoved and unflappable, it juxtaposed her with her mother whose aged eyes brimmed with an undercurrent of permanent anguish that broke Yalina’s heart. It was like the woman had been put through hell and never managed to crawl out. And how could she? If one day, Zayan vanished leaving no trace, leaving no certainty of his fate, Yalina was sure it would kill her just the same. That strengthened Yalina’s resolve, this mother deserved the truth. Yalina directed her next words to her, “I am here about your son. Jaskirat.” 

Instantly, the atmosphere in the room shifted, grew heavy. The agonized undertow surged to the surface in his mother’s eyes, and she drew a corner of her dupatta upto her trembling mouth. On the other hand, Jasleen stiffened, like a wall had come down inside her. She raised a hand to grasp her mother’s shoulder. “What about my brother?” she questioned.  

Yalina licked her lips, and for a futile second, flailed about for a delicate way to answer her. Coming up empty, she resorted to the brute truth, “I know it’s been a very long time and a lot has happened, but well- your brother Jaskirat- he’s, he’s still alive.” The truth came out lower than she’d intended, almost a whisper. 

Jaskirat’s mother let out a stifled whimper and looked to Jasleen. The steel of Jasleen’s face remained locked, guarded, “And who are you to know that? Are you from the government? Show us your ID.” 

I am your sister-in-law, Yalina thought but didn’t say.  

“Ah, no...” This wasn’t going quite the way Yalina had hoped. Internally, Yalina cursed her own indelicacy. “I am not from the government, sorry. I am-” She inhaled deeply, “I know this might be difficult to believe but well, I am Jaskirat’s wife.” 

Quick as a tendril of lightning, Jasleen shot up to her feet, “Get out,” she ordered through gritted teeth. Yalina recoiled immediately, caught off-guard by the aggressive reaction. Jaskirat’s mother reached up to grab Jasleen, “Jasleen wai-” she started to say. 

Jasleen turned to her mother, “Maa, you stay out of this. You,” she whirled back to Yalina again, finger outstretched, “Who sent you? Balwinder? Well you can crawl back to him and inform that he can expect another police visit. Try this kind of prank again and he’d find himself in more trouble than last time.” 

“No one sent me,” Yalina protested, appalled. “And it’s no prank, who would joke about something like this?” Under Jasleen’s unabating glare, Yalina held up a placating hand, “Wait, one second, I can prove it.” She unclasped her handbag and reached into the side-pocket which held her new (fake) passport. Folded between the passport pages was a photo which she retrieved and held out to them. “Here, take a look at this if you don’t believe me.” Continuing to glare at her, Jasleen snatched the photo out of her hand.  

The moment Jasleen's gaze dropped to the photo, everything changed. She froze, eyes widening and mouth falling open in a mute gasp. Her entire face slackened, unstiffened, and came alive with a thousand emotions. Incredulity, elation, wonder, disbelief, wariness, all warred for dominance on the battlefield of her face. Fingers gripped the photo tightly enough that her nails began to turn visibly white.  

Yalina knew what she’d be seeing: Yalina’s family of three posing in front of their home. Jaskirat in his striking black Pathani with his long mane tumbling down his shoulders, yet his intimidating persona would be undercut by the small grin etched upon his face as he leaned his head against Yalina’s. Yalina, smiling, would be cradling Jaskirat’s jaw in one hand. They would have an arm each around Zayan’s neck as he stood in front of them, grinning gap-toothed at the camera.  

“Jasleen?” Her mother grabbed her arm, trying to catch her attention. “What is it?” Struck dumb, Jasleen silently handed the photo to her mother and crumpled down to her side. 

If Jasleen’s reaction had been intense, her mother’s was…. unbearable. With uncomprehending perplexity, the old woman stared at the photo in her hands for a long moment. As seconds ticked by, her hollow eyes began frothing with the agony of unhealed grief, of a pain that never wanes, of a futile hope that never dies, not truly. Withered, trembling fingertips traced the photo in a slow motion. When she finally lifted her gaze back up to Yalina, her face was half-mad with wonder and shock in equal parts.  

“Ye- ye mera puttar, ye toh mera Jaskirat hai!!” As if unable to bear looking away for a moment longer, her hysteric gaze released Yalina and locked upon the photo once again. Tears now dripped freely down her face, running down the lines in her cheeks like rain down a ravine. Beside her, Jasleen remained rooted in place, staring down at the photo with the air of a person struck by lightning.  

“Haanji. Aapka beta hi hai, aapka Jaskirat,” she assured them, feeling answering tears rising to her own eyes.  

A helpless sob escaped his mother’s lips. Her dupatta had fallen back from her head, the slanted rays of sunset stole in and painted her grey hair golden. “Mera beta! Mera baccha… Kitna bada hogaya hai!!?... Mera... Aur-aur ye chota baccha?” The old woman glanced back up at Yalina, looking up to her as if she held all the answers to the universe. 

“Our son. Your grandson. His name is Aryan.”  

“Son.” She repeated, as if the word made no sense. “Jaskirat’s son. My grandson.” She stared into the picture as if it would eventually open up and allow her to crawl in and draw them out, into her reality. Her mouth trembled uncontrollably but stray sobs broke through anyway. She grasped her daughter’s hand, “Jasleen? Jasleen, tum dekh rahi ho?? Humara Jassi!” 

Jasleen, who’d been gaping silently at the picture, jerked as if slapped awake. “I don’t understand,” she said. “How is this possible? How can this be? I…” Visibly, Jasleen reassembled her guard, forcing the mask of wariness back into place. Her sharp eyes pierced Yalina. “If it’s really him, where is he? Where has he been all these years? If he was alive, why did he never even call us?” 

“Canada, he’s been in Canada. That’s where I met him over seventeen years ago,” Yalina lied the best she could. Hamza had briefed her on the cover story on the train journey here. “I don’t know all the details, but from what he’s told me.. he was captured by Sukhwinder’s men, but he somehow managed to escape them. He knew that if the officials caught him, he’d be hanged and if those men found him again, he’d be killed.. so he boarded a ship headed to Ecuador, and from there, over the years, he managed to make it to Canada. He did odd jobs, barely getting by.. With the police still looking for him, we were too scared to return here..” 

“He could’ve called us!” Jasleen insisted. “No, I don’t believe this! No matter how bad things are, I can’t believe our brother wouldn’t call us. For twenty four years!” She shook her head, again and again. The “our” rolled off her tongue like her sister was alive and here, hidden away in some room, and not dead and cremated over twenty years ago. “What you are saying- I can’t believe you.” 

“Jasleen!” Her mother protested, grabbing her by the shoulder. “The photo!” 

“It could’ve been morphed! Come to think of it, this man has Jaskirat’s features yes but he looks so different as well, right? He’s so much bigger, his face itself is different, and all that beard and hair, who knows-” She babbled, sinking into denial. “You don’t know the technology these days, Maa, anything can be fabricated. That monster Balwinder, you know the kind of things he’s capable of! That time he’d sent a fake newspaper to our home with Jassi’s face edited onto some rapist? He’d gleefully brandished that shit in the market for days afterwards announcing that Jassi had been caught at last, in an act expected of him, that he’d be hanged for sure now. That time-” 

“Jasleen!” Her mother begged, taking her daughter’s face into her hands. “Stop. Please stop. This isn’t like those times, and you know it.” Jasleen’s eyes were red, her breathing hard, her lips shivering. Her mother drew her into her arms, cradled her head into her shoulder and began hushing her gently.  

Yalina glanced away, this was too personal, this wasn’t for her to witness.  

A long time ago, in another life, she’d once taken a medical class where the professor had lectured them on something called Ketosis. It went like this- a starving person, when they’d gone long enough without eating, eventually stopped feeling hunger. Even with food placed in front of them, they’d deny, refuse, regard it with suspicion. And when they eventually buckled and ate, their own body would betray them and reject the food violently. They would begin retching immediately, unable to keep it down. The paradox of suffering, her professor had told them then, where you couldn’t ingest the very thing that could save you. 

Jasleen’s reaction right now reminded Yalina of that lecture. A woman who’d suffered for so long, borne so much, now confronted with something she couldn’t deal with: hope.  

Slowly, as moments trickled by, the shadows lengthened in the room and the dusk deepened, heralding night. Only after the sobs began to subside did Yalina speak again, “There is a large birthmark. On his right thigh,” She began quietly, her gaze still averted to allow them both privacy, “He likes to sleep without a blanket, no matter how cold it is. He tries to hide it, but he has a massive sweet tooth, especially for laddoos, he can eat them by the dozen in one sitting. He gets ridiculously excited about bikes, cars, the whole works. He says that his favorite color is black, but it’s actually yellow. He hates long fingernails with a burning passion, wouldn’t stop nagging me if I let them grow even a little beyond my fingertips. He can bear any injury silently, but cannot handle being sick at all, he becomes downright insufferable whenever he catches a fever.” 

Finally, Yalina turned her head to the two women who were watching her, rapt, almost mesmerized. Against their better judgement, belief had begun to take root. Yalina leaned in, holding their gaze, and injected all the sincerity of her truth in her last appeal, “It is him. I promise. Believe me. Please.”  

The mother leapt up, “I believe you!!” She rounded the glass table and joined Yalina on her sofa, joints creaking audibly. Her frail hands grabbed onto Yalina’s, and when she spoke, it was through a veil of tears, “Meghanji, I believe you. I fully do. Please, my Jassi, where is he? Is he alright?? Can we talk to him please? Humein uske paas lejaayiye, mein aapke saamne haath jodti hoon.”  

Overwhelmed, Yalina clutched onto her wizened hands with equal feeling, “Aap please aise baatein naa karein. Ofcourse you can talk to him, ofcourse I will bring your son to you. He’s alright I swear, he misses you both so much, everyday. Trust me, I’m sure there hasn’t been a day where he hasn’t thought of you.” 

“Where is he?” His mother sobbed, weeping freely. “Mera sher puttar… kaha hai woh?” 

“Bohot nasdeeq. At a lodge not too far. Don’t worry, I will brin-” 

“He’s here?? In Pathankot?!” Incredulity colored her words, she seemed ready to leap up right now and race to whatever lodge Yalina named.  

“Jaskirat is in Pathankot?” Jasleen echoed from the other sofa, sounding like she couldn’t process the sentence.  

“Yes. He’s right here,” Yalina confirmed.  

“Where?? Take me to him, please please,” His mother was now holding onto Yalina  with enough force to bruise.  

“You don’t have to worry. I promise that I will bring him to you,” Yalina reassured her. “But not tonight… First thing tomorrow, I will bring him here, I swear.” For a moment, she’d considered the appeal, thought of taking them to the lodge right then and there. But no, she couldn’t blindside Jaskirat like that, he deserved better.  

“Tomorrow,” the other woman repeated slowly, as if tomorrow was an year away, as if she was unsure whether it would even arrive. 

“Tomorrow,” Yalina affirmed, gentle but firm. 

Silence ensued, the woman slackened her grip and then released Yalina, retreating into herself. Jasleen and her mother exchanged a lengthy glance, one that spoke of disheartened skepticism. There was a learned helplessness to it, the kind that one mastered when they’d spent their whole life trying to stand up against the cruel tide of fate, only to be miserably beaten down each time. The two women knew that they were entirely at Yalina’s mercy, the mercy of a stranger who’d shown up on a random day and dangled this massive possibility in front of them. A stranger who could, right now, very well vanish off into the night, leaving behind nothing but a promise, just to never show up again.  

Yalina couldn’t help but curse herself, she wished that she was better at this, that she had the words to lift that expression off their faces. But no matter how hard she tried, no such magical assurances came to her. 

Suddenly, a shrill ring screamed from her bag. Yalina jumped and momentarily glanced in confusion at the unfamiliar tone before remembering her new burner phone. Hurriedly, she fetched the phone out of her bag; as expected, the call was coming from the only number saved in it.  

She swallowed, very aware of the two sets of eyes upon her, but her decision was made. Lifting the call, she held the phone upto her ear, “Hello?” 

“Yalina!” The voice at the other end was sharp, the way it became when he was worried. “Where are you?? I woke up and thought you were in the bathroom, but you aren’t here, you aren’t in the room, where are you?” 

“It’s okay Jaskirat,” she replied purposefully, and instantly, both the women straightened and shifted towards her. She held Jasleen’s gaze as she conversed with him, “I’m sorry I left without saying anything, but don’t worry, I will be back soon.” 

“Soon? It’s already 7, our train is at 8, we have to travel to the station too, where are you??” A frustrated edge had crept into his tone, he wasn’t used to unpredictability from her. Back in Karachi, she’d once ditched the bodyguards Hamza had appointed for her and gone for a night-out with her friends. His meltdown afterwards had been one of the few times she’d ever witnessed him fully lose his composure.  

“I am not very far, it will take me 45 minutes to reach the lodge. I am starting right now, I will explain everything once I am back.” 

“45 minutes?” he repeated. “Yalina… are you… did you go out of the main city?” 

She clutched the phone tighter to her ear, “Yes.” 

A long beat of silence before he spoke again, sounding raspier, “Stay where you are, I’m coming to get you. It’s dark outside and you don’t know this area-  it’s dangerous for you to travel alone.” 

“It’s not even completely night yet,” she disagreed. “And you’ll drag Aryan all this way? Don’t be silly, I’m coming right now, don’t move from where you are.” 

“Yalina-” 

“I am returning, don’t worry, I’m returning right now. I will see you in a few minutes,” she cut the call before he could argue further.  

The air was heavy. “Was that…?” Jasleen trailed off. 

“Yes,” Yalina affirmed. Jasleen’s mouth clenched. 

“I could almost hear him,” His mother breathed from beside Yalina, her eyes big and bright, wondrous. “Through the phone. It was distant... but I could almost make it out. The voice. It sounded like him.” Shoulders shaking, the old lady folded her hands in front of Yalina. “Meghnaji, I’m begging you. Please bring him to us. Please.” 

Yalina clasped her hands, “I promise you, I will. First thing tomorrow you will have your son with you. Rishte se aap bhi humare maa hi hai, please mujhe aise sharminda naa karein.” She drew the old woman’s hand up to her face and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of it. “Now, I must leave, I will see you both tomorrow morning.” Tugging her bag onto one shoulder, Yalina forced herself to her feet. 

“Wait, one second,” the mother stood and picked up the sole apple placed upon the glass table, the one she’d been about to cut earlier. “Here, please take this. Daughter in-laws shoudn’t leave their sasural empty handed.” 

Feeling choked up, Yalina accepted the apple. A hundred years ago, a thousand kilometers away, her Ammi used to say something similar to Hamza, refusing to let him leave their home empty-handed whenever he’d visited. “Thank you.” 

“Come on, I will help you get a ride,” Jasleen was at her side, leading her out. As they turned to the threshold, Yalina cast one last glance at the elderly woman huddled alone on the sofa. The photo was back in her hands, her bent head bowed over it. Somehow, Yalina had a feeling she wouldn’t be sleeping much tonight. 

Outside, it was surprisingly dark. In the middle of these fields, there wasn’t a lot of illumination, rendering a heavy blanket of blackness. Yalina was starting to see why Hamza was concerned. 

“It’s too isolated here,” Jasleen voiced her thoughts aloud. “Let’s take my scooty, I will drop you to the nearest main road, we can get you an auto rickshaw from there.” Without waiting for Yalina to agree, Jasleen got onto her green TVS scooter. Gratefully, Yalina threw a leg over the seat and seated herself behind Jasleen. And then they were off, rumbling through the darkness. The roar of the engine was loud. There wasn’t much by the way of streetlights, but Jasleen navigated the road with confidence. Her driving was practiced, but the unpaved road still caused them to bounce up and down, Yalina clinging to the other woman’s shoulders for support. She couldn’t help but crack a private smile, remembering that very first bike ride with Hamza, all those years ago. Perhaps this was a rite of passage for her with the Rangi siblings. 

Soon, they reached a broad paved road bathed in streetlights, and Jasleen pulled over to the side. 

“Thank you, Jasleenji,” Yalina said as she disembarked from the scooty. “Main yaha se chali jaoongi.” 

“I will stay with you until you get a rickshaw,” Jasleen replied simply. Together, they proceeded to wait for a rickshaw to hail. Five minutes of waiting only yielded a couple of cars speeding past them.  

“Your phone…” Jasleen spoke abruptly, tone soft but questioning, like a thread of thought unlaced and given air. “It’s... a dabba phone. Nokia. No one uses phones like that anymore, why do you have it?” 

She took a second to answer, trying to best toe the line between truth and lie, “We bought it after coming to India. Jaskirat is very paranoid about the police catching him.” 

“Hmm... from everything you said, it sounds like you both went through a lot of trouble to come back to India.” You can’t even begin to imagine, Yalina thought, sadly. “There must have been some big reason for it... Tell me, what made you both finally decide to return to India? Why now, after so many years?” Her eyes were blank, revealing nothing, like the surface of a murky pond. 

Yalina floundered, “I- he... well, we wanted to come home.” 

“Yet he isn’t here, you are,” There was a twist to Jasleen’s mouth. Her probing was pointed, she still seemed to be walking a tightrope between belief and disbelief, unsure of which side to land on. The questions spilled out of her, “You say he wanted to come home, then why was it that you showed up at our door alone? Why do we have to wait until tomorrow to see him? If it’s really him and he’s here, in Pathankot, why didn’t he come home today?” 

“He’ll be here tomorrow,” Yalina assured, side-stepping the questions, but the weight of Jasleen’s scrutiny was unfaltering. In the face of it, Yalina gave way, feeling oddly compelled to offer the truth to Jasleen, to whatever extent she could. Anything lesser felt wrong, irreverent. “But... to say the truth, Jasleen... I don’t really know either. If I’m being honest, he was supposed to be the one on your doorstep today, not me, but... he couldn’t do it, he has no idea I’m here either... And I think.. I think it’s because he’s scared. To face you.” 

That seemed to catch Jasleen by surprise. “Scared?” Like that word didn’t belong in the same sentence as Jaskirat’s name. 

“Yes, it’s hard to explain... But, well, it has been so many years... you and your mother have moved on, you’ve built a life of your own, a life without him in it. And... so many years in Canada, it hasn’t been all that easy for him, he’s had to do things he isn’t proud of. He’s changed as a person, just as I’m sure you have... With all that... I think he’s not sure if he has a place here anymore, in this world and in your lives.” Her words were quiet and honest, to the extent she was allowed to be.  

“Jassi... having no place in our lives?” Jasleen repeated slowly, brows furrowed. Her voice was low, but gained a fervency, “That’s... he’s... there hasn’t been a day we haven’t thought of him. Every other day, we watch cassettes of his childhood, I can’t count the number of times I’ve caught Mummy hugging some old shirt of his, she wouldn’t let any of his clothes or things be thrown out, I named my child after him... Even my late husband used to-” She paused, sounding choked up. Forcefully, she averted her gaze and blinked rapidly. 

She didn’t know what to say. Jasleen’s husband: the corpse in my bathroom, needle sunk into its eye. Yalina’s hand clenched into a fist; there were no easy answers, not for Jasleen, not for Jaskirat. Ya Khuda, why does it all have to be so darn horrible?  

The two of them suddenly found themselves caught in a bright pool of light, as the headlamps of an auto rickshaw turned upon them. The driver had spotted her waiting by the road and made his way over. Once he drew to a stop in front of them, Yalina gave him the name of the lodge and the address, aware of Jasleen closely listening in. The driver gestured her in, flipping the meter on. 

“Thank you, Jasleenji, for everything. See you tomorrow,” Yalina told her. 

“We will be waiting,” Jasleen said blankly. As Yalina climbed in though, she spoke again, suddenly and with feeling, “Meghnaji” Yalina turned back to her, “I... hope and pray to Waheguru that you are truly who you say you are, that your promises are true. If not- I’m not sure we’d be able to survive it.”  

Feeling the full weight of her words, Yalina rasped past the lump in her throat, “I am. They are. I won’t let you down.” 

“Good,” Jasleen replied, and now, her gaze wasn’t blank anymore but overflowing with an intense longing, so compelling it was like the moon calling upon the tides. “Bring him home, Meghna. That’s all I ask, we’ve lost so much and- just please, bring my brother home.” 

Wordlessly, Yalina nodded one last time. Then, she was off into the night, with the last image of Jasleen’s fierce face bathed in streetlights burned into her mind’s eye. 

Soon, the tears came, and didn’t stop through the whole ride back.   

@bway43 @iolahardy-blog @tere-naal-nachna @ib-gremlin @hamzaalimazari @harrystyleskiwi9 @misteriadare @dumbassdictionarysds @tanipartner @peach-preach @ruubby @mujhegharjaanahai @faebutterflygayaf @avilovesyou @mainyahaankyunhoon @eagleflieshighinthesky @browniemilkies @araasa @aaglagibastimainhumapnemastimain @bitchy-bi-trash @adirasenraizada @legendmoonstone @dil-ibaadat @luvmaii @pavbhajisupremacist @weepingbastiontwilight @speedyturtleprincess @sunxister21 @ppinkitten @severusthings @bway43 @araasa @aoyamaj3711 @browniemilkies

[poorquentyn]

If Jon Con were to have gone full Tywin and burnt the village at Stoney Sept to the ground, killing Robert B, do you think Tully and Strark would have taken the pardons like Toyne asserts? I think any peace with Aerys still on the throne would be utterly undependable in their eyes.

Well, here’s the thing: any scenario where Robert’s immediate threat to the capital gets nullified is a scenario in which Rhaegar has the breathing room to attempt something resembling a coup against his father, as he hints to Jaime right before riding off to face said immediate threat. Jon Connington, who commands the royal armies (and who has just made himself almost as much a pariah as Aerys on the rebel side), is unquestionably going to back his beloved silver prince, so Rhaegar would stand a chance at capturing the Iron Throne.

I think Hoster and Jon Arryn would be willing to talk terms at that point with Aerys out of power, although the new king might be pressured to turn his back on JonCon in order to quell feelings over Robert’s death (and wouldn’t the griffin’s reaction to that be interesting). Ned might resist Rhaegar at first…but he’s still going to find out about Lyanna and Jon sooner or later. Who the hell knows what he does then.

[ai-manre]

Want to post new chapter of Phir Se Naina Mile soon but damn work is so hectic ughhh

[ai-manre]

Babe woh fix it fic ka part 3 mil jata toh Bahut meherbani hogi

Girl trust me I'm working on it, I just went on a trip last weekend and work has been crazy since then (I'm talking 14hr work days 😭😭). Will try to make it happen this weekend hopefully

[ai-manre]

Slightly unhinged but wdym we got zero scenes of someone grabbing Hamza by the hair to drag him around? The muridke backstabbing scene with Iqbal was the perfect opportunity for it, wouldve been so spicy for some reason.

Chekov's hair never got pulled

[ai-manre]

Phir Se Naina Mile: Chapter 2

Dhurandhar the Revenge Fix-It Fic

Chapter 1 Link

As promised, the lodge was a shabby building right down the street. A big board hung outside, naming it as “RAYAL VILLAS”. A young woman sat behind the counter at the reception, wholly engrossed in her phone. Hamza murmured a few words to her and she absentmindedly handed the keys over to him.  

Inside, the walls of their room were painted a dull shade of yellow that somehow swallowed the sunshine blaring into the room. In contrast, the bedspread was a bright pink. Hamza, who’d carried Zayan up the stairs, removed his shoes and took the boy to the bathroom to help him relieve himself. Yalina kicked off her own sandals, casted off her pink dupatta, but didn’t bother to change out of her cotton salwar kameez before unceremoniously falling upon the bed. The part of her which had long been accustomed to all the luxuries and comforts of money nagged about the questionable hygiene of the bedspread. She studiously ignored it. 

The room had no air conditioning, only a ceiling fan, which thankfully rotated with enough speed to evaporate the sweat beading upon her brow. Even then, the paltry breeze it generated was hot enough to make her skin smolder. She missed Karachi, she missed their home, she missed her mother. 

In a few minutes, Zayan bounded out of the bathroom alone, and joined her upon the double bed. His face was slightly damp but clean (Hamza must have washed him up) but he was visibly tired, all slow blinks and long yawns. She made him drink some water, fearing the heat. Once done, she pulled a thin blanket over his body and curled up beside him, patting his small chest lightly until he dozed off.   

It took a long while before Hamza exited the bathroom. When he did, he looked familiar again. The turban was gone, leaving his long mane tumbling down his shoulders, and he’d stripped down to his black undershirt and sweatpants. 

Drawing all the curtains shut, he plunged the room into the closest thing it had to darkness before joining them on the bed, flanking Zayan’s other side. The bed was barely large enough for the three of them, she and Zayan were huddled on one half whilst Hamza took up the entire other half of the mattress. It creaked slightly under their weight as Hamza turned towards them, his large hand coming up to cover hers on Zayan’s chest. Together, they felt his little chest rise and fall with his breathing. 

Above his head, husband and wife held eachother’s gaze, cradled in the filtered sunlight.  

After a moment, her husband’s lips parted, “I still can’t believe I get to have this. You both. Here.” His thumb absently stroked the back of her hand, moving back and forth. Yalina didn’t respond, not wanting to interrupt his contemplation. “Back then, that last day- when I’d left home- I’d truly thought-” A long exhale left his nose, his lids fluttered shut for a brief moment before parting open again, as if reliving that nightmare. “I am sorry. You had to leave everything behind. For me.” 

“Not everything,” Yalina corrected. “And I didn’t have to do anything. I chose this.” 

Fond amusement crept into the set of his mouth, “That’s what you’d said back then too- that first night when you’d left your father’s mansion for my pigeon hole. You hadn’t known the full truth about me though, you didn’t sign up for this when you’d married me.” 

“No,” Yalina agreed. She certainly hadn’t signed up to marry a secret Indian spy. Right after the reveal of his true identity, that knowledge had shaken her, now… it was true that her perception of him had changed, but not necessarily in a bad way. Yalina had known when they’d wed that Hamza wasn’t someone who could objectively be called a good man. He’d been a gangster after all, one that ran illegal businesses and killed people. Nobody would call him shareef. But it hadn’t mattered to her, after all, what was all that in the face of the softness and warmth he showed her? Besides, her own Abbu wasn’t an "objectively" good man either, so what did she care what Hamza did, outside the purview of their home? 

That foundational understanding of Hamza’s personhood had been shattered by the revelation on that fateful night. At first, it’d only been the anger at using her, the betrayal of her country... but recently, she’d started to think more of the rest, her thoughts revolving around what it said about his true self. The unveiled truth that Hamza had never been a selfish gangster wielding violence only for himself, but a soldier who’d left everything behind to go on a mission fully knowing that it would end only in tragedy for himself. It had made her start perceiving him differently.  

“I didn’t choose that then. But this time, knowing everything, I chose this now. You,” she asserted, curling her pinky finger around his, on Zayan’s chest.  

Unabashed love was carved into Jaskirat’s features as he gazed at her. Slowly, careful not to disturb Zayan, he raised his head to kiss her lips. They kissed slowly, unhurried, savoring the softness of the moment. At last, he broke their kiss and rested his forehead against hers. “I was scared to hope for this, even in my dreams,” he confessed in a whisper. “That I’d get to keep you both… I was supposed to have been hanged all those years ago Yalina, I thought my life had ended then.. But now, somehow, I am lucky enough to have this. A man shouldn’t be greedier. I shouldn’t push my luck. So don’t worry about me, meri jaan.” A kiss was laid upon her forehead before he withdrew, retreating to his original position. 

Yalina gave him an empathetic smile, “If that’s how you feel, I won’t push you. I understand.” 

“This is for the best,” he murmured, eyes flickering. “Now, let’s sleep. The train leaves at 8 tonight. We need rest.” Yalina hummed in agreement and let her eyelids flutter shut.  

Since they’d reunited in India, it was like something had loosened, some unknown barrier had given way inside him. Looking back, it was only now that she realized that all these years, he’d always been holding back a little, always been keeping a piece of himself guarded in their time together. As if he were protecting himself from future heartbreak, haunted by the knowledge that he might not get to keep them forever. In real time, she’d seen that barrier crack and shatter behind his eyes when Yalina and Zayan had been presented to him in Delhi. She would never forget the sheer disbelief warring with naked elation on his face in that moment.  

That’s my Hamza, she thought, fondly. Always doing these big, self-sacrificial acts for his loved ones but never expecting it for himself in return. Always giving everything, like it’s a foregone conclusion that it’s his duty alone to bleed for everyone else. 

As the afternoon abated, the room cooled a little, feeling less like a tandoor. The ceiling fan somehow worked a miracle and lulled them to sleep. A little while later, she heard Hamza’s breathing slow and settle into the rhythm she knew meant that he was deep asleep. She waited a few more minutes to be sure, before gently extracting her hand from under his, and creeping out of the bed.  

A sense of urgency was upon her, driven by the resolution that’d been brewing at the back of her mind since the dhaba. The window to act was very short. Making sure to walk on her tiptoes, she picked up her pink dupatta and her handbag. Peering into the bag, she crosschecked that she had everything she’d need, including her wallet and the burner phone she’d been given. After ensuring that she was prepared, Yalina silently drew on her sandals and picked up the room keys. 

She turned the old knob slowly, as soundlessly as she could manage, cringing at every tiny creak. Once opened, she tiptoed out of the room, into the corridor, and equally carefully pulled the door shut. The automatic lock clicked and Yalina sighed.  

I am sorry, Jaskirat, she internally apologized for going behind his back. But I don't believe in Balidaan.

@bway43 @iolahardy-blog @tere-naal-nachna @ib-gremlin @hamzaalimazari @harrystyleskiwi9 @misteriadare @dumbassdictionarysds @tanipartner @peach-preach @ruubby @mujhegharjaanahai @faebutterflygayaf @avilovesyou @mainyahaankyunhoon @eagleflieshighinthesky @browniemilkies @araasa @aaglagibastimainhumapnemastimain @bitchy-bi-trash @adirasenraizada @legendmoonstone @dil-ibaadat @luvmaii @pavbhajisupremacist @weepingbastiontwilight @speedyturtleprincess @sunxister21 @ppinkitten @severusthings @bway43 @araasa @aoyamaj3711 @browniemilkies

[i-like-to-eat-cotton]

I'm just gonna say it

The Mahabharat is first and foremost,a religious text,not just another piece of literature. I'm not talking about the fanfics or making heacannons or anything like that,you can of course have fun with the characters,i myself like analyzing them as humans,and you can obviously critique it for some of the misogyny it contains,again, it's an itihasa,which is highly interpolated.

But none of that erased the cultural and religious significance of the text which contains the Bhagvad Gita. I don't like any scripture being insulted,regardless of the religion it belongs to. Calling it the misogyny text? Or claiming that just because slaves existed means Krishna also owned slaves?(Krishna,who IS a religious figure,even if you do see him as a human) You're forgetting all religious importance and explanations by saying such things.

And on top of that,you can't just call your interpretations of it "reading comprehension" while calling anyone who calls you out a hindutva. And i hope you do realize how harmful it is to compare someone defending their religious beliefs to an extremist, you're basically blurring the lines(and maybe even pushing the person into a line of extremism if they start to think that hindutva is just about defending their religion)

[yaririya]

i completely forgot posting this here omgg 😭 nyways my BABYGIRLL

[ai-manre]

Phir Se Naina Mile: Chapter 1

A Fix-It Dhurandhar Fic

Summary:

'Balidaan Parmo Dharma,' the mantra had long been carved into his heart with blood, sweat and tears. Jaskirat Singh Rangi had lived by that. Hamza Ali Mazari had lived by that. Too bad Yalina didn't agree. (aka what if instead of ending up with no families, Jaskirat had ended up with two families?)

---

Pathankot was hot. Terribly so. It was a dry, raspy heat, the kind that got under your skin and prickled, carrying none of the humidity to which she was so accustomed. It reminded her of the one summer she’d spent in Lahore as a child. 

The dhaba was a modest place, with straw cots, peeling wall-paint and no air conditioning. No menus either- instead, the server verbally rattled off all the available items. But the food was good. Though Yalina did not see the appeal of piping hot food in this steaming hot weather, she did not know how other people bore it.  

A sudden laugh broke out from the large group sitting in the corner and Yalina startled, automatically drawing Zayan closer to herself. Suspicious, too suspicious, she chided herself and forced her limbs to loosen up. She tore a piece off the kulcha, scooped some chole onto it and held it up to Zayan’s mouth. Distracted by his new videogame, he absentmindedly accepted the bite. Her fingers broke off another piece and brought it up to her own mouth, chewing mechanically and forcing it down her gullet.  

‘On edge’ didn’t even begin to describe her state right now. Pathankot was an army town, which meant that the only other people in the dhaba, the group in the corner, were dressed in Indian army uniforms. Five men and one woman, all appearing to be in their twenties. Their chatter revolved mainly around complaints on the demanding days and ruthless superiors... It should not scare Yalina, her own husband was a special Indian operative after all. But still... her stomach writhed with nerves. She wanted Hamza here. With him at her side, she’d strode through the army-infested corridors in Delhi with not a falter in her step.  

This is what I chose, Yalina reminded herself. If I’m going to stay in this country, I will just have to get over it.  

Being in India, living in India, wasn’t the sort of thing she had ever imagined in her wildest dreams. But that day had changed everything.

After that phone call where Hamza had revealed his true name to her, she’d almost given up any hope of ever seeing him again. She’d fallen to the floor with the phone clutched to her chest. She’d wept and wept and wept, almost crying herself to sleep, unable to endure the harsh turn of fate, when her phone ringtone had caught her attention. 

The called ID had said ‘Unknown’. With trembling fingers, hoping against hope that it was her Hamza, she’d raised the phone to her ear. ‘Yalina Ali Mazari, confirm that it’s Yalina Ali Mazai’ a masked voice had commanded from the other end. That should’ve raised flags in her head, but well, what did she have left to lose? 

‘C5842F’ Yalina had responded with the safe code Hamza had created for her. ‘Confirmed’, the masked voice had responded, ‘Listen carefully, Madam Mazari, we don’t have much time. Hamza is being extracted. It has come to our attention that you are aware of some sensitive details about him. So here's the thing- if you want to be with him, this is your last chance. You and your son can be extracted alongside him tonight. It won’t be to Canada and you can never return to your country nor can you contact your loved ones again so-’ 

‘Yes!,’ Yalina had gasped out, before they could finish their sentence. ‘Yes, please tell me what to do. Tell me where to come.’ She had stumbled to her feet, glancing around herself like a panicked doe.  

‘Dureji. In three hours. Only you and your son, don’t bring anyone else. And trust me, we’d know if you inform anyone else. This would be your only chance.’ The line had cut. 

Perhaps, if she’d received such a call even a day before, Yalina would have hesitated, reconsidered, pondered upon everything she’d have to sacrifice. But that day had changed it all- those excruciating hours of believing Hamza to be dead or worse,  of thinking him gone forever, it had put everything else into perspective. At the root of it, it was simple: there were things Yalina could live with and things she couldn’t, could never. And the latter? That was never seeing Hamza smile again, never hearing his laugh, feeling his touch, kissing his lips…  

No. Anything but that.  

Decision made, Yalina had raced up the stairs, intent upon finishing the packing she’d started earlier that day. Mindlessly, she’d shoveled clothes into the suitcase-hers and Zayan’s. Then came a few keepsakes- her mother’s heirloom necklace, the watch Abbu had gifted her, the earrings Hamza had given her, Zayan’s favorite rabbit soft toy. And photos ofcourse, any and all that she could find were crammed in. A lifetime of her memories thrown haphazardly together.  

Somehow, Yalina had managed to pack, dress Zayan and catch a cab. As their car peeled away, some of the bodyguards watched her leave with visible confusion. "Call Abbu, he'd know what to do," she commanded Shafiq, the bodyguard closest to her. Then, they sped into the waiting darkness. 

In the car, there were no tasks to distract from the magnitude of her worries – for Hamza’s life, for her family she’s leaving behind, for the future. With trembling fingers, she’d dialed her Abbu and he’d picked up on the second ring.  

“Yalina, bolo bacche?” 

She’d sobbed into the phone, “Abbu..” 

The reply rang with his alarm, “Yalina? Kya hua mere bacche? Kaha ho tum?” 

“Mein jaa rahi hoon. Mein aur Zayan. Hamza ke paas. Aur kuch nahi bol sakti mein, par shayad desh chod ke jaana padega humein.” 

A moment of silence where she’d clutched the phone tighter to her ear. “Abbu?” 

“Haan bacche, hoon yahan,” His voice had been trembling and tears had dripped anew down her cheeks. “Don’t cry, my kiddo, don’t.. Mujhe tumpe bilkul yakeen hai, agar tum ye faisla le rahi ho, to tum sab kuch soch samajh ke hi le rahi hogi. I’m with you, whatever you choose, I’m with you.” 

In her arms, Zayan had shifted, “Nanoo?” Over the phone, she’d caught Abbu’s small sob.  

“Here,” Yalina had pressed the phone against her son’s ear. “Say bye to Nanu.” 

“Kyu? Hum kahi jaa rahe hain, Ammi?” 

Through the haze of water, she’d barely been able to make out his little features, so innocent and trusting, looking to her to make sense in a world like this. 

“Tumhare abbu ke paas jaa rahe hain hum,” Yalina had told him. “Chalo ab Nanu ko bye bolo.” 

Confused, Zayan had managed to convey his goodbye and goodnight wishes to his grandpa.  

“Mere bahudar bacche,” Abbu’s voice had rang strong from the receiver. “Yalina, meri sherni bacchi. Khud pe bharosa rakho Yalina, sab theek ho jayega.” 

Yalina had struggled to see how everything could possibly be alright. She’d either have to lose Hamza or her family, her country, her life. But that hadn’t been right, was it? She’d already made her choice. Just as she’d made her choice to stay that first night at Hamza’s old place. “Khud hafiz, Abbu. I love you.” Before her bravery could dry up, she’d forced herself to cut the call. She hadn’t dared to call her Ammi, afraid that it would push her past the breaking point. Besides, after Hamza had handed her the Canada tickets earlier that day, she'd called her Ammi up, craving the normalcy of a chat with her. They’d chatted about the weather, changing fashions, and the white bataks Ammi had started rearing after Abbu go on and on about Zarwari Uncle’s bataks. Ammi had interpreted Abbu’s rants to mean that he’d secretly wanted them. Yalina hadn’t disagreed, their shared conclusions had been vindicated when they’d caught Abbu circling the new bataks at all times of the day. 

The memories of that last call would have to suffice as a goodbye, because Yalina hadn't the strength to call her again without crumbling. Instead, she clung to the fond memories, and they warmed Yalina all the way up to Dureji Helipad.

Upon reaching there, two masked men had slinked out of the darkness. “Confirmation?” Yalina had asked them boldly, clutching Zayan tightly to herself. 

“C5842F” The muffled voice had responded. They’d then been directed towards a helicopter with the inky blackness cloaking their takeoff. Her ears had popped from the ascent and she'd ordered Zayan to keep swallowing to clear his ears. A few minutes later, once they'd settled into a smooth flight, one of the dark figures held up something.  

“Blindfold. Alright?” The voice had been that of a woman. 

The impression it'd given her had been that it wasn’t really a choice, but Yalina had appreciated the courtesy nonetheless. With a thudding heart, Yalina had agreed, glad that Zayan had fallen back asleep minutes into their ride.  

After what had felt like hours of torture, the helicopter's frame had drifted into a clear descent. Finally, under the heavy sound of the rotating blades, they'd touched down on the ground. When she’d finally been allowed to remove her blindfold, it had been to a sun starting to peek over the horizon of a foreign land.  

“Where are we?” Yalina had asked of the woman across from her, the one with the large kind eyes visible behind the mask.  

“Ahmedabad. Don’t worry, the worst is behind us now. You can get some rest before the next leg of the journey to Delhi,” As if sensing Yalina’s persisting fear, she had continued, “Trust me, you have nothing to fear from us. You are his wife.” A touch of reverence had colored the woman’s tone. It had been strange, Yalina had long become accustomed to the admiration coating people’s words when speaking about her husband, but this had been the first time it had felt so… honorable. Not the respect for a gangster wielding considerable power and authority, but the vicious pride a village would have in its hero. Ours, it had implied, he’s ours.  

As if summoned by her thoughts, a sardar stumbled into the dhaba, looking so unlike her husband that it took her a couple of seconds to recognize him. The long luscious locks were now bound under a turban. In place of his striking black Pathani kurta, he was wrapped in a soft pink suit. Beyond all, the biggest change was in his gait: he no longer stalked in like a panther, all danger and grace, instead his every movement was subdued and spoke of hidden pain.  

"Ha-Jaskirat!" She raised her hand to wave him over. Blank grey eyes drifted to her and he limped over. The turban added to his height, making him look ridiculously tall.  

"Abbu! Aap aagaye?" Zayan greeted happily. Immediately, Yalina glanced around in fear, hoping that no one had overheard him. Only, to her relief, it looked like the army group had left. They were alone in the dhaba now, except for the bored man minding the counter while watching a cricket match on the TV. "Aryan! Papaji bolna hai, samjhaya tha na tumhe!"

Zayan was Aryan, Yalina was Meghna, Hamza was Jaskirat. A perfectly normal Indian family. 

Hamza (Jaskirat) cracked a smile. With gritted teeth, he contorted himself into the empty chair across the table. "Sorry, I made you both wait for so long. I hope you liked the food?"  

"Yes, it was yummy!" Zayan grinned, showing his little teeth. Yalina didn’t reply, the proximity disclosed the pain and heartbreak shining in her husband’s grey eyes. Raw dread writhed like live snakes in her stomach.  

"Aryan, why don’t you go to that corner and play your game? Maybe you would be able to get to the next level," she suggested, pointing at the wall opposite to them. 

"But amm-" 

"Aryan," she rebuked sternly, "Your father and I need to talk, go to the corner please." Zayan pouted but followed her instructions, dispatching himself to the other side of the dhaba where she could continue to keep an eye on him but far enough to give them both privacy. 

"What happened?" Yalina whispered the moment he pattered away. Hamza’s tremulous smile withered and died, revealing the wreckage underneath. It made Yalina’s heart pound with mounting trepidition. "Were they not there? Did you not find them?" 

He peered blankly down into the empty glass of lassi resting on the table. A housefly, one of the many here, landed on the tip of Hamza’s nose, he made no move to dislodge it. Yalina reached out to flick it away. Once done, her fingers captured his chin and raised his head to meet her gaze. "What happened, Jaskirat?" 

"They were there. I saw them," He rasped, unshed tears shining in his eyes. Deep relief washed over Yalina and she released a breath she didn’t know she was holding. They were alive, they were here. Her worst fears had not been realized. 

"That’s amazing," Yalina felt tears spring to her own eyes. "I am so, so glad.. What happened then? What did they say when they saw you? Should we come along to meet them now?" 

"They didn’t." His face was an open wound, raw and blistered.  

"What?" Yalina didn’t understand. 

"I saw them. They didn’t. See me." His long fingers curled around her wrist and dragged her hand up his own face, from his chin to his cheek. He turned his nose into her palm, burying himself.  

"What?.. Wait, you didn’t show yourself to them?" Silently, he shook his head into her palm, almost like he was nuzzling it. Tears speckled upon his lashes wetted her fingers. "Mere jaan.. kyu?" 

"I couldn’t," he breathed. "What face will I show to them?" 

Gently, she took his face in both her hands and turned him towards her, not allowing him to hide. "This beautiful face," Yalina answered him, wanting so badly to kiss that hurt away. 

In their years together, she’d seen Hamza broken more times than she could’ve counted: the night Rehman Bhai had died, the time he’d received news of a massacre of Balochi children, the day Zayan had fallen from a tree and broken his arm. That one time Yalina had fallen grievously ill from jaundice and woken to find his hair splayed across her belly, his arms locked tight around her middle as if afraid she’d float away. Each of those times, she’d carefully pieced him back together with learned patience.  

Now, he appeared more shattered than ever before, irises resembling splintered glass.  

"Jaan- you don’t understand." 

"So help me, my dear, make me understand." 

"I killed my sister’s husband." 

"Not by choice."

"Does that matter? I made my own nephews fatherless." 

"And to make up for that, you will deprive your mother of her living son?" 

"They have moved on." He croaked finally, his whole face bristled with the pain. "Its been 24 years. They have moved on and built a life for themselves. A life without me in it. They are happy and peaceful, what right do I have to barge in on that?" 

It was incredulous, ridiculous, so far from the realm of reason that she didn’t know how to counter his fears. "Jaskirat… they had no choice but to live without you, but in what world does that mean they are happier without you? Do you truly think that if you returned there now, this very moment, and let them see you, they wouldn’t be overjoyed?" 

Jaskirat didn’t answer, silent tears streamed down his face. And therein lay the answer to his fear- his true fear.  

"You cannot truly believe that.. Jaskirat- listen to me-" But it was too late, he was shaking his head and drawing away- he’d already made his decision.  

"I have booked a room in a nearby lodge. Let’s go get some rest, we can catch the evening train."  

"But-" 

"I made a mistake leaving Delhi like that. I just hope Sanyal saab can forgive my disobedience for this one time. We should really get back to Delhi soon. Let’s go," Disengaging himself, he limped over to Zayan. They exchanged some words before he took Zayan’s little hand in his own and pulled him to his feet. Yalina had no choice but to arise and join them at the counter as Hamza cleared the bill. 

There was no getting through to Hamza once he’d made up his mind. 

@bway43 @iolahardy-blog @tere-naal-nachna @ib-gremlin @hamzaalimazari @harrystyleskiwi9 @misteriadare @dumbassdictionarysds @tanipartner @peach-preach @ruubby @mujhegharjaanahai @faebutterflygayaf @avilovesyou @mainyahaankyunhoon @eagleflieshighinthesky @browniemilkies @araasa @aaglagibastimainhumapnemastimain @bitchy-bi-trash @adirasenraizada @legendmoonstone @dil-ibaadat @luvmaii @pavbhajisupremacist @weepingbastiontwilight @speedyturtleprincess @sunxister21 @ppinkitten @severusthings @bway43 @araasa @aoyamaj3711 @browniemilkies @screwyoubatjokesiscanon

[ai-manre]

Guys all the fanfics are beginning to turn me off on Hamzair 😭😭😭 almost starting to read like AUs